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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



LYRICS of the 
SOUTHLAND 

BY 

« 

Emory Elrage Scott 







Copyright, 1913 

By W. F. Scott 
Chicago. 



©CI.A343964 

Ao/ 



DEDICATION 



TO MY MOTHER: 

The source of my inspiration, and 
whose influence has ever been my 
guide, this book w affectionately 
dedicated. 



CONTENTS 



Page. 

A Denunciation of Satan 39 

Age 66 

A Sonnet to My Sister 12 

Conscience 46 

Constancy , 27 

Cry Baby 72 

Dawn 34 

Deception 63 

Discouragement 71 

Don't Worry 33 

Epitaph 12 

Eulogy 16 

Expectation 79 

Fix Me 18 

Footsteps That Falter 86 

Home 43 

If You Were a Rose 9 

Impossibility 52 

Life's Journey 37 

Logatha Bayou 26 

Lullaby 62 

Mandy Jane 59 

Melancholia 38 

Memories 23 

Mother 44 

My Creed 24 

My Friend 77 

Onward 46 

Procrastination 28 

Promises 65 

Rainy Days 10 

Reverie 29 

Rusty Rules 48 



CONTENTS— Continued 

Page. 

Silence 57 

Society 64 

Sons of the Sod 11 

Soliloquy on Life 13 

Southern Superstition 73 

Suicide 67 

That Suits Me 44 

The Black Slave 31 

The Cotillion 69 

The Death Bed 75 

The Death Song 92 

The Dream Castle 30 

The Homestead 17 

The Immortalization 35 

The Lamentation 81 

The Parting 15 

The Pessimist 61 

The Pest 54 

The Plea of the Aged 25 

The Prattlers 68 

The Revival 87 

The Reward 45 

The Single Life 49 

The Sluggard 45 

The Woman of Wiles 19 

Uncle Ebeneezer's Prayer 47 

Wash Day 55 

Your Friend 53 

Jealousy 91 



Lyrics of the Southland 




IF YOU WERE A ROSE. 

If women all were roses, dear. 

And bloomed from June till May, 

I'd pluck and keep you for my own, 
Forever and a day. 

In my heart's album I would place 
Your petals sweet and rare, 

And shelter safely from life's storms 
Your form so frail and fair. 

I'd watch and guard you zealously 
Against cold blasts unseen, 

And on my throne of purest love 
I'd have you reign as queen. 

And when your beauty faded, dear, 

I'd brighten it with love, 
For value I your love, sweetheart, 

Next to the things above. 



Lyrics of the Southland 



RAINY DAYS. 

On my pane the rain-drops patter, 
With a drumming, noisy clatter, 
And the glist'ning drops bespatter 

Mother earth. 
Clouds before the brisk breeze scurry, 
Trees yield leaves unto the flurry, 
But sit I in pensive worry, 

Without mirth. 



Myriads of rain-drops glimmer, 
Hast'ning streamlets seem to simmer, 
And the darkened day grows dimmer, 

Dimmer still. 
Until now the earth is shrouded, 
And the blackened skies beclouded, 
With huge billows black, close crowded; 

Hushed the rill. 



Idly sit and gaze I dreaming, 
Seeing only fox-fire gleaming, 
Until starlets, brightly beaming, 

Shed their light. 
Then I kneel, and meekly bending, 
Start my prayer to heaven ascending, 
And to darkened day that's ending, 

Say : "Good-night." 



10 



Sons of the Sod 



SONS OF THE SOD. 

O ! swarthy race, how oft I turn 

And view thee, sore oppressed. 
O ! for some soothing balm to heal 

Thy wounded bleeding breast. 
A breast that nurtures genius 

For pinnacles of fame; 
A breast that hides a hurting heart, 

That weeps not in its shame ; 
Faith's glist'ning foil thy stay shall be; 

Thy leader, He in Heaven above; 
Thy banner, faith ; 

Thy war-cry, love. 

O ! ebon race of Afric's clime, 

Of cloud-flecked sunny skies, 
The sentinels of Heaven watch 

Thy steady, rapid rise. 
Men of the sod, strive and fight on. 
Choice of our God, reach up and strive, 
And live, and work, and work, and thrive. 
For the hand that shrouds in darkness 

Is the hand that made the light, 
And the God who spurns the evil 

Is the God who loves the right. 
Though strife oppress, turn ye not back, 

For tott'ring weaklings cry and pale. 
The valiant negro must fight on ; 

He shall not, will not, cannot fail. 



11 



Lyrics of the Southland 



A SONNET TO MY SISTER. 

Could but cold death in sooth assuage my woes, 

I'd hie him to the churchyard of my heart, 

And bid him bide his time, and ne'er depart 

'Till scanned full well the tombstones of his throes. 

And with one tear methinks I would disclose 
That sanctum, of my sister's soul a part, 
Then gently as caress of roe and hart, 
I'd bow in rev'rence where the Reaper sows. 

I'd bow and sing a song to worlds unknown, 
Played on my heartstring lyre unto the blest, 

And on my mound of strife, so weather-worn, 
The victor, vanquished, would I ween be guest; 

Until that gray, grim Reaper quit His throne 
And carved with swinging scythe: The soul at rest 



EPITAPH. 

May sweet dreams mark thy peaceful rest, 

And restful peace be thine; 
May heaven train upon thy breast 

Her beacon-light divine. 
Until thy struggling, care-worn soul 
Shall reach the oft-sought, hard-gained goal, 
Shall flit o'er paths that once were trod 
Beneath a weak world's chast'ning rod, 
And lightly skim o'er sinful sod 
To meet thy Maker and thy God. 



12 



Soliloquy on Life 



SOLILOQUY ON LIFE. 

Frail mortal man must surely die; 
His bones commingle with the dust. 
And, wherefore, then, should he exist? 
Or, prithee tell me, What is life? 
In some the dwarfed brain of man 
May reason thus : Since seldom man 
Is just, and loyal trust oft met 
With base betrayal by his friends, 
When 'tis committed to his care, 
Then, why possess this thing called life? 
Earthly reward there's offered none ; 
And when old hoary age creeps down 
To stiffen joints and ague bring, 
Ofttimes there's not a meager crust 
To banish hunger from the door; 
Nor owns he of life's worldly goods 
Enough to shield him from the rain. 
But unprotected and forlorn, 
He wanders 'neath God's azure skies, 
Despised, forsaken, and forgot. 
Yet, neither doubt nor dark despair 
Should him enshroud with gloomy cloak. 
List rather to the words of seers, 
Who deem this fleeting life worth while; 



13 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Methinks there's not a man who spends 
His life in living all for self; 
For in the breast of every man — 
E'en though it's hidden by misuse — 
There lays a smould'ring spark of love 
To help and cheer his fellow-man, 
Which, fanned by confidence and trust, 
Will rise into a roaring flame 
That burns with pious charity. 
And hath not God ordained that man 
Shall eke existence by his toil? 

And prithee, tell me, what is life 

But sometimes joy — more often pain? 

With ofttimes not a word of cheer 

To rout the hated company 

Of dull monotony and care. 

And whose weak mortal eye, pray tell, 

Hath gazed into unfathomed depths 

Of knowledge in the Great Beyond, 

And by its wondrous vision found 

Why earth is fraught with pain and strife? 

Exist not merely, then; but live 

For virtue and to do the right. 

To goodness upward reach; and strive 

God-like perfection to attain. 



14 



The Parting 



THE PARTING. 

So you've learned to love another; 

And our love has been in vain; 
And we're parting from each other, 

Though the parting brings me pain. 

I have bowed my head in sorrow 

Whenever we have met, 
And I'm praying that tomorrow 

May teach me to forget. 

Can you e'er repay the anguish 
That is more than tongue can tell? 

Can you e'er repay the heart throbs 
Of a heart that loved too well? 

Though the grief that you have given 
Is the grief no time can quell ; 

Yet my only words of parting are : 
Farewell ! Farewell ! Farewell ! 

All the vows that you have broken ; 

All the things that you have said, 
Were all words but idly spoken, 

And the heart within you 's dead. 

I have seen your new-found treasure. 
And I've battled with my fears; 

I have quaffed my bitter measure 
And I've tried to hide the tears. 



15 



Lyrics of the Southland 

And within this heart that's burning — 
It were better ne'er we met — 

For I only courted sorrow, 
And I only wooed regret. 

And e'en though I'll ne'er regret thee, 
I could ne'er, no, ne'er forget; 

And from deep within this lonely heart 
Farewell ! Farewell ! Farewell ! 



EULOGY. 

A messenger of God, serene, 
Drew Heaven's snowy, star-decked screen 
Stretched forth his wings in downward flight 
And launched a sweet soul swathed in white. 
The soul waxed strong 'mid weal and woe, 
And braved Sin's torrents rush and roar, 
Abandoned sorrow's sinful ties, 
Unhampered, vanished in the skies. 



16 



The Homestead 



THE HOMESTEAD. 

There's a spot for which I'm yearning, 
Where a lass waits my returning, 

Where the cotton-bolls are blowing in the breeze. 
And each evening in the gloaming, 
There my thoughts go idly roaming, 

To my Georgia home amongst those old pine trees. 

Where the morning-glory's blooming, 
Where the giant oaks are looming, 

'Neath that canopy of sunny southern skies. 
Where the nightingale's sweet singing 
Mingles with the church-bells ringing, 

And the honeysuckle's fragrance never dies. 

Oft I see those streamlets leaping, 
See that clinging ivy creeping, 

In the old church-school I see my father's pew. 
E'en above the door now rotten 
Hangs that motto, most forgotten, 

Reads the remnant : "As you'd have them do to you." 



17 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Oft I see the teacher teaching 

Or that long-frocked preacher preaching, 

In those same old high-topped boots he wore of yore. 
As he preached with faith undying, 
There were moans and tears and sighing. 

How I wish that time would take me there once more. 

When the hope of life's declining, 
And my world-sick soul is pining 

For the smell of sweet magnolias on the breeze; 
When old time this back is bending, 
And this life draws nigh its ending, 

Let it be beneath dear Georgia's old pine trees. 

FIX ME. 

Oh, Lawd, give me faith an' grace; 
He'p me run dis rugged race; 
Fix me, Lawd, when I go wrong, 
'Ca'se you know, dis lane is long; 

Fix me, Jesus, fix me rite. 
Lordy, sen' yo' movin' pow'r; 
Draw me closer ev'ry hour; 
Lawd, sen' down yo' heavenly bos', 
Lemme feel de Holy Ghos'; 

Fix me, Jesus, fix me rite. 
Dere's mah mothah in de do; 
Fix me fur dat otha sho'; 
Keep ole Satan 'hind de do'; 
Let der streams of mussy flo'; 

Fix me, Jesus, fix me rite. 



18 



The Woman of Wiles 



THE WOMAN OF WILES. 

Perchance some lanes to gladness lead; 

And some may lead to fame; 
And some may e'en to sadness lead, 

While others lead to shame. 
But the lane that checks, 
And ruins and wrecks, 
Enticingly twists, and turns, and becks, 
Cares naught for the soul and less for the sex, 

Is the lane that leads us downward. 

For a youth in his prime met by chance (so they say) 
A weakling who chanced to cross o'er his life's way, 
Who gave not a thought to the price that he'd pay, 

So she sought to entice with her smiles. 
And she petted and played as a child with its toy, 
Till enmeshed in her guile lay the heart of the boy; 
And her sin-sickened soul seemed enraptured with joy. 

But the world cursed and called her 

The woman of wiles. 

'Tis not the lane of sinful pain 

That leads us to despair; 
But lanes that drag us down when fain 

We'd turn our feet elsewhere. 

They're the lanes well filled 

With glitt'ring gild, 

Sustained by the gore of souls they've killed, 

Made bright by the light of lives they've stilled, 
That would ever lead us downward. 



19 



Lyrics of the Southland 
THE WOMAN OF WILES 

And as she by artifice sought to ensnare, 

The youth in himself knew he never could care, 

For what she was seeking he knew was not there, 

So he sneered at the smile that beguiles. 

And ofttimes she would sigh; and ofttimes she'd 
entreat, 

For the love of the youth she'd fain have at her feet; 

But the youth with a smile mixed the gall with the 

sweet, 

And cursed her and called her 

The woman of wiles. 

The life lane that all splendor seems 

Oft leads us to the earth; 
The beacon light that brightest beams 

Oft lights the way to dearth. 
For between the flare, 
And blaze and glare, 
There's lurking the ever waiting snare. 
The milestone marked; Care, ne'er bids us, beware! 

On the lane that leads us downward. 

And though she by trickery tried to entrance, 
The youth in his feeble way tried to advance; 
But bluster of youth is but blindness, perchance, 

So he couited the death that defiles. 
And betimes oft he'd sigh that her will would relent, 
And betimes oft he'd cry and his folly repent, 
And would grieve o'er the part of his life so ill-spent, 

And curse her and call her 

The woman of wiles. 



20 



The Woman of Wiles 

THE WOMAN OF WILES— Continued 

But tears e'er strew the wake of grief, 

For strife exacts her toll ; 
And sorrow's outburst seeks relief 

In tempests of the soul. 
And the yawning years, 
With frights and fears, 
Engulfing us in their tide of tears, 
All lie on the lane of sneers and of jeers, 

The lane that leads us downward. 

He sat oft in sorrow, and naught could console, 
And she — base deceiver — would dare to condole; 
Yes, she without conscience and void of a soul 

Would soothe that which time reconciles. 
So he stayed, while the cordon of chains closer drew, 
But the half that he suffered the world never knew; 
And he sulked all alone, for his friends were but few; 

And his life's one regret was 

The woman of wiles. 

And some must bear Remorse's staff — 

Each lane its passerby; 
And some must live to love and laugh, 

And some must live to die. 
Oft we meet conceit, 
With its gild, deceit, 
And struggling, we bravely court defeat. 
But battles well fought make victory sweet 

On the lane that leads us downward. 



21 



Lyrics of the Southland 

A WOMAN OF WILE& 

Oh, how oft repent we; oh, how oft regret; 
And how oft remember what fain we'd forget. 
But mind in its orbit by Self must be met; 

In its orbit of shadows and smiles. 
For the hour of remorse is the hour of regret; 
And each tear that we shed 's but a drop of the debt; 
And each sin we commit 's but a sin to be met. 

So it is unto all — e'en 

The woman of wiles. 

And each may wend his way of sighs, 

And woo its silv'ry call; 
The lanes we prize and idolize 

Give oft the vial of gall. 
Oft the things we've said, 
And the lives we've led, 
Confront us in ghostlings of the dead. 
And wedding our Smiles, leaves Past in their stead, 

On the lane that leads us downward. 

Each brook has its babbling, each song-bird its song; 
Each vice has its virtue, each virtue its wrong; 
Each crowd has its cankerworm mixed in the throng, 

Whose poisonous presence defiles. 
She's more deadly than death, and more cunning than 

snake, 
And defeat, death and failure all lurk in her wake; 
For she wagers the world and its virtue's her stake. 

She's the woman the world calls 

The woman of wiles. 



22 



Memories 



MEMORIES. 

We may not miss the sunlight, 

We may not miss the rain ; 
We may forget the twilight, 

And time may ease our pain. 
We may not miss the flowers, 

Killed by the falling frost; 
But memory closely clings to one 

Whom we have loved and lost. 

The birds may sing in springtime, 

The trees may shed in fall; 
Our hopes, as leaves in autumn, 

May fade beyond recall. 
We may not miss the lily, 

Kissed by the morning dew ; 
But memory closely clings to one 

We've loved, and loved so true. 

We may not miss the music 
Of yonder rippling rill, 

Nor golden grain that's growing 
Beyond on yonder hill, 

Nor evening glows at sunset 
As dying days depart, 

But memory closely clings to one- 
One dearest to our heart. 



23 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Our hearts beat oft in sorrow, 

And oft we know the pain — 
The stinging pain of parting, 

When we have loved in vain. 
Our souls oft die in anguish, 

Our lives grow dark and cold, 
For memory closely clings to one 

We've loved with heart and soul. 

MY CREED. 

To live not in thought, but in action, 
Performing each day some good deed. 

Of mankind expect not exaction, 
To give unto him who's in need. 

To sit not in idleness weeping 
O'er burdens and hardships I bear; 

To comfort when dull sorrow's creeping 
O'er fainter hearts burdened with care. 

To live that my thoughts be unspotted ; 

Encourage not that which is base ; 
Make use of the short life allotted, 

And look the vain world in the face. 

To spend not my life in the planning 
And dreaming of things I'll accrue, 

But bravely my Ship of Life manning, 
Determine to dare and to do. 

To wholly place trust in my Maker; 

To honor, to trust and obey, 
To reverence, nor ever forsake her, 

My mother, who taught me to pray. 



24 



The plea of the Aged 

THE PLEA OF THE AGED. 

Turn back, old Time, turn back betimes ! 
Return my childhood ere too late, 
Before I reach Death's dreaded gate, 

And mother earth my form confines ! 

Turn back, old Time ! Recall the years 
That painted white this hoary head, 
And give me back my youth instead! 

Blot out the past of sighs and tears. 

Make young once more this trembling frame, 
That shambles with an awkward gait ; 
These withered, bony hands I hate, 

And gaze upon their forms in shame. 

Not shame with guilty heart, contrite, 
For many hungry mouths they've fed, 
And wand'ring, wayward footsteps led 

Into the narrow path of right. 

But shame for mem'rys that they bring 
Of happy days in boyhood spent, 
As romped I on some errand bent, 

Blithe as a lark upon the wing. 

Turn back, old Time! Turn back, I pray! 

Snuff not the candle of my life ! 

I've braved the sorrows and the strife! 
Swift, fleeting Time, I beg thee stay. 

And wilt thou not recede? Alack! 

Let not my pleadings be in vain ! 

Thy swift, progressing pace restrain. 
Turn back, old Time! Betimes, turn back! 

25 



Lyrics of the Southland 

LOGATHA BAYOU. 

Come with me where the brisk breezes blow; 
With me roam where the large lilies grow. 
In the gloaming, in twilight, 
Just before the birth of night; 
Where breezes cool 
Romp over the pool, 

Down in the Logatha Bayou. 

Dearest heart, with thy sweet soul, divine, 
Let me hold thy slim, soft hands in mine. 
There we'll sit and there we'll dream, 
Close beside the silent stream. 
Come, dear, with me, 
And we'll happy be, 

Down in the Logatha Bayou. 

There, my love, with thy head on my breast, 
Sweet repose, tranquil, quiet and rest, 
Will dwell and with us abide, 
And no harm can e'er betide; 
Nymphs of the stream 
Will guard Love's young dream, 
Down in the Logatha Bayou. 

And as o'er life's long journey we roam, 
Happy in our small palace, the home; 
When old Time has hued our hair 
With his white brush of despair, 
We'll see that shore, 
As in days of yore, 

Shore of the Logatha Bayou. 



26 



Constancy 

CONSTANCY. 

I have given all, my dear ; yet you are cold. 
I have given honor, faith, my heart, my soul. 
I have willed my life to you. 

Can't you love me? Would you dare? 
Heaven knows, dear, I've been true, 

And each hour this is my prayer : 
May Heaven help the woman who's in love. 

It is I, who for your smiles would give my life. 
It is I, who bears your burdens, toils and strife. 
Not a song-bird's soft refrain 

Holds the music of your voice. 
Not for worlds would I remain 

Other, dear, than just your choice. 
May Heaven help the woman who's in love. 

Must I sigh and plead my love, yet plead in vain ? 
Must I love and lose, and feel the piercing pain 
Of a broken, bleeding heart? 

Must I bear the taunts and jeers 
That the world will, dear, impart, 

And then stifle back the tears? 
May Heaven help the woman who's in love. 

Can I hang my head in solitude and shame? 
Must I bear the burden of a tarnished name? 
Can I bear it all alone? 

Must I bear it for your sake? 
With a smile, yet inward groan, 

Must I of that cup partake? 
May Heaven help the woman who's in love. 



27 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Though the sun, dear, of my life is sinking fast, 
Constant will I be, my love, unto the last. 
Not one soothing ray of love 

Warms my flower of regret. 
My last prayer to Him above — 

For my sun of life has set — 
Is : May heaven help the woman who's in love. 



PROCRASTINATION. 

'Sperience, fo'ks sez, is er te'cher. 
Some teks trubbels to de pre'cher 

'Bout dey sin. 
But de bes' way I kin see 
Is ez simple ez kin be : 
Ef you wants sumthin' done, 
Put bizness befo' fun. 

Do it den. 

Ef yo' ole coat sleeve needs mendin', 

Do it den. 
Ef yo' tempah needs some bendin', 

Do it den. 
Ef yo' clo'es gits full o' dirt, 

An' you gits a lazy pain, 
Wash 'em out, it ain't gwi hurt, 

'Ca'se termorrow hit mought rain. 
When you say : "I'm gwi do sumthin,' " 

Do it den. 



28 



Reverie 



REVERIE. 

I sit in meditative quiet oft, 

And ponder o'er the dim, receding past, 

Or lose myself in silent reverie 

Of what the unknown future hath in store. 

And groping blindly, on and on I go 

Upon a slender woven thread of thought, 

That will not bear a baser mind beyond 

The walls of reason, nor convey him to 

That precious treasure sought, but seldom found, 

The unknown sense. And some hypnotic spell 

Seems to enfold me with enraptured bliss, 

While mellow tunes are wafted by the breeze, 

Tunes such as I have ne'er heard sung by men. 

But roam I further ; not content with this 

Insight into the future I hath gained, 

But, as the clinging ivy upward creeps, 

Imbed I deeply tendrils of my thoughts 

Into the things unseen, and slowly grasp 

What thinks me was not made for weazened mind. 

Until at last I reach a height that racks 

The brain, and causes me to backward turn, 

To trend of thought pursued by normal man. 



29 



Lyrics of the Southland 



THE DREAM CASTLE. 

A castle built I for my nation, 

On tall and towering Mount of Fame. 
Chose I best book-lore for foundation ; 

The mortar, talent — not a name. 
By tedious toil, the walls rose higher, 

O'ertopped surrounding castles all. 
Earth's tainted lucre could not buy her, 

Yet ebon marble decked her hall. 
While peers of Mount Fame watched my progress 

Formed I the roof of deepest thought : 
Then thought me : "I have built with success," 

For nobly those black walls I wrought. 
But when it stood in dazzling splendor, 

My neighbor frowned ; yea turned his back. 
For lo ! left I an open window 

And saw he that those walls were black. 
Then quoth he, as I stood, hope dying: 

"Go, build in thy forefathers' glen." 
I went; albeit sadly sighing, 

And reared a cabin in the fen; 
And here 'mongst bleaching bones I grovel ; 

Mid kith and kin I sadly pine; 
Though fates decree this humble hovel, 

Yon stately mansion's rightly mine. 



30 



The Black Slave 



THE BLACK SLAVE. 

The sluggish Congo winds its way 

Through undergrowth of matted vine. 
The sunshine scarcely casts a ray — 

So thickly does the mass entwine 
O'erhead — into that dismal swamp. 

Dead silence reigns save for the drone 
Of insect, or the monkey's romp 

O'er gnarled tree and aged stone. 

With blinking eyes, the swamp-frog sits 

Upon his sea-green throne of moss. 
The lioness her young permits 

To scamper o'er her coat of gloss. 
All nature seems to be asleep, 

All save the ray-emitting sun, 
Who must his shining vigil keep 

And each day o'er the same course run. 

But hark ! whence comes that piercing shriek, 

That cry of anguish and despair, 
Driving each bird its nest to seek, 

And wild beasts snarling to their lair? 
What means that form besmeared with gore, 

That totters feebly through the brakes? 
A lad of ebon hue, footsore, 

Who kindred, home and friend forsakes. 



31 



Lyrics of the Southland 

He staggers on through murky pools, 

That harbor death and fever brew, 
He sees the lions slink like ghouls, 

But only thinks of friends he knew ; 
Of friends who struggle day by day 

Beneath oppression's rigid hand ; 
Though strength is spent, his spirit's gay, 

To know he's rid of slavish band. 

He does not see the seething mass 

Of quagmire mud obscured by leaves; 
He sinks into that foul morass 

And not a kinsman o'er him grieves. 
His dirge is sung by warbling birds, 

A giant cypress marks his grave, 
With slimy shroud the mud begirds 

His form now free, no more a slave. 

No more to bear with ashen face 

A lash swung by a heartless brute, 
Who claims he's of a higher race 

And that they virtue constitute. 
Then if there's virtue in his soul, 

Let sin and evil reign supreme; 
Cast out chaste piety for gold ; 

Let good be some fantastic dream. 

Let goodness hide her head in shame, 

When blood is spilled for lust of gold; 
And let not virtue own her name 

If she must sacrifice a soul. 
For when archangels' trumpets blow 

With shrilly blast their final note, 
The wielders of the lash shall know 

That vice from virtue is remote. 



32 



The Black Slave 
THE BLACK SLAVE- 

L'Envoi. 

The golden sun sinks in the west; 

The king of beasts calls to his mate; 
The jackall leaves his place of rest; 

The night-owls hoot; the leaves vibrate. 
The cypress looms in giant mould; 

Weird, ghost-like forms moonbeams portray; 
While marshy depths the black slave hold, 

The sluggish Congo winds its way. 



DON'T WORRY. 

When a frien' dat's been true 

Thinks he's better den you, 

An' gits mo' cash den he kin spen', 

An' borrows an' don' nevah len'; 

You may think dat I'm wrong, 

But it ain' gwi be long 

Fo' he'll drap rite bac' wid you. 

Don' keer how fur he goes, 
Don' keer how much he knows; 
He mought go clear up to de sky, 
An' know zactly how fur he's high. 
Twice one wuz alius two, 
Miss Heaven, don' git blue, 
Fur he'll drap rite bac' wid you. 



33 



Lyrics of the Southland 



DAWN. 

Recede! thou evil imp of gloom; 
Haste forth, thou skipping sprite of light; 
That I may feast my eyes upon 
The glories of old nature's works. 
Let roll the scrolls of dying night, 
That sun-bedecked in crimson robes 
May enter forth upon the stage 
Of azure sky, and smiling, kiss 
The dew from nature's carpet green. 
Return, fair moon, from haunts unknown, 
And lead thy twinkling brood the stars 
To their mysterious abode. 
The sun doth wait impatiently, 
Perchance, for thy delayed retreat. 
Let tinge of scarlet, that excels 
In beauty blush of maiden fair, 
Now mark thy upward flight, thou orb 
Of light; for plyers of the brush 
Do wait for thy first peep at dawn, 
Above horizon's tree-specked rim. 
Hear thou not the low of cattle, 
And the song birds' noisy chatter? 
Arise, shed forth thy glist'ning beams, 
And paint the earth in nature's hue, 
That sleepy daffodil may ope its eye. 
Send forth thy dazzling light, and let 
The day beam forth in splendor bright. 



34 



The Immortalization 



THE IMMORTALIZATION 

Methought the world had closed its eyes in sleep, 

To slumber till the next unpromised day, 
Beneath the close-drawn scrolls of curtained night, 

And not a wretched sinner thought to pray 
In meekness for forgiveness of his sins, 

Nor penitently raised his voice on high, 
But lay him down in robes of sin to sleep, 

Forgetful that his frame of clay must die. 

But ere the golden sun had shown his face, 

Or Mars had ceased to shed his feeble ray, 
The silv'ry moon had changed to crimson red, 

And angels walked upon the milky way. 
A thousand trumpets rang in sweet accord; 

Blown by a thousand angels clad in white, 
And lo ! the world in wonderment awoke, 

To gaze in awe upon a wondrous sight. 

Above, the gates of Heaven opened wide! 

Below, the pits of Hell belched forth their smoke! 
With suddenness the flaming sun arose, 

Then fell until earth its impetus broke! 
The sudden shock nigh split the earth in twain ! 

The birds and beasts in wild confusion fled! 
And as the flames were spreading o'er the earth, 

Sepulchres opened and gave forth their dead ! 



35 



Lyrics of the Southland 
THE IMMORTALIZATION 

While from the realms of joy and bliss above 

Descended chariots of glist'ning gold, 
Drawn by the steeds of everlasting life, 

To bear above who had the story told, 
Of how Christ died upon Golgotha's hill 

Between two thieves who knew but sin and strife, 
And meekly wore a piercing crown of thorns, 

That sinful man might have eternal life. 

The unbelieving infidel, in dread, 

Saw rumbling chariots retrace their way, 
Then dropped his doctrine of weak unbelief 

And humbly knelt to meditate and pray. 
And weak, vain mortals, who could not conceive 

Of things without beginning or an end, 
Felt heat from flaming fiery tongues, 

And sought too late their stubborn wills to bend. 

But hotter raged the leaping tongues of flame. 

The oceans left their beds, the mountains tossed. 
Too late, the sinner gnashed his teeth and wailed; 

Too late he knelt in prayer — almost but lost. 
And yawning Hell stretched forth her mouth in glee, 

To joyfully her doomed share accept. 
The earth was charred and dark. The angels sang. 

Exulting Hell rejoiced; but Jesus wept. 



36 



Life's Journey 

LIFE'S JOURNEY. 

What matter though the night be dark and long? 

The world is not bought by a paltry song; 

But is to him who struggles to excel, 

Performs his task and doth it goodly well. 

Some fail ; undauntingly some few progress 

Toward that coveted goal of success, 

And reach by dint of persevering pluck 

What some unwittingly term luck. 

To him, who fain would of the base partake, 

And gratify desire for evil's sake : 

The annals of great men reject his name 

And cast it sullied from the Halls of Fame. 

He weakly clings upon life's bottom rung, 

Withdraws his grasp and dies, unwept, unsung. 

Dame Fortune smiles on him whose thoughts are pure; 

And upon him who doth life's tides endure 

Bestows her bounties with no scanty hand, 

And spurs him on to duty's stern demand. 

And soon he towers like some giant oak, 

Beneath which rests the plowman and his yoke, 

The traveler as he journeys seeks its shade, 

The birds its leafy foliage invade; 

So stretch the branches of thy efforts wide, 

And let not wisdom's foliage subside 

In growth; but train thy body, soul and mind, 

That they may bless thy Maker and mankind. 

37 



Lyrics of the Southland 



MELANCHOLIA. 

Ofttimes I wish I'd ne'er been born 

Into this world of strife. 
That breath had ne'er been blown into 

This frame to make a life. 
That brightness reigned instead of gloom, 

And flowers never died; 
That song-birds always sweetly sang, 

And flaky snow defied. 
That breezes rocked the violets 

In winter and in fall; 
That gently I might pass away 

With sweet farewells to all. 
Ofttimes I wish. 

No more I wish my wish so vain; 

I've seeds of discord sown; 
The breath contained in this clay form 

Is His, and not my own. 
With brightness there must come the clouds, 

For sweet flowers to shed rain. 
The flaky snow protects the tree, 

That birds may nest again. 
If violets in winter bloomed, 

Proud nature would repine. 
O, Lord, forgive my foolish wish; 

Thy will be done, not mine. 
No more I wish. 



38 



A Denunciation of Satan 



A DENUNCIATION OF SATAN. 

When all in heav'n was ecstasy, 

And peace ruled o'er the earth; 
When Paradise in splendor blazed 

Nor knew but joy and mirth; 
When chants to Great Jehovah, God, 

Resounded through the sky, 
Then Satan with his jealous heart 

To solitude did fly. 

To ponder meditatively 

O'er his deep evil plot ; 
How he might gain eternal fame 

And lose himself no jot. 
For over white-clad cherubim 

He had been ruler placed, 
And deeply brooded o'er his wrongs 

As back and forth he paced. 

Oh, why wast thou not satisfied 

With all that God had giv'n, 
But sought by some foul strategy 

To be the King of Heav'n? 
What monstrous thought thy mind profaned 

To cause thee stir up strife? 
Knew ye not that the Lord alone 

Was King of death and life? 



39 



Lyrics of the Southland 
A DENUNCIATION OF SATAN ' v 

You led your bold, rebellious crew — 

Dishonor to their name — 
Into the spot to all held dear, 

Its portals to defame. 
Your battle-cry defiant rang; 

There was a sharp command; 
And boldly forth marched Heaven's host 

In one angelic band. 

Electrum shields and jasper spears 

Met clashing in the air; 
Proud warriors flew to and fro 

To join the dense warfare. 
And look ! there is a wounded brave ! 

A pale, distorted face! 
A groan, an agonizing scream! 

A fall into black space ! 

The fight was fought in bloodless strife, 

Forms falling flitted by; 
While hovering close up above 

You saw the end draw nigh. 
Your band receded pace by pace, 

They to defeat were led; 
And seeing that the fight was lost, 

Into chaos you fled. 



40 



A Denunciation of Satan 



You had your trumpeters recall 

The band from fleeing rout; 
And they flew swiftly to your side 

In consternative doubt. 
Nor knew that they were doomed to stay 

In dark forever more, 
And roam through pathless brimstone pits 

Along a red-hot shore. 

The bells of fate incessant rang 

Throughout your stately halls; 
Inhabitants of worlds below 

Came swiftly at your call ; 
The call to find a volunteer 

To roam through darkness dense, 
An outlet out of Hell to find, 

Nor e'er at darkness wince. 

Of all immortals from afar, 

Monster or hellish elf, 
To face the pitch of chaos, black, 

Not one dared by himself. 
But to be thought of as a brave, 

Or hero held in view, 
You leapt into the stilly night 

And into darkness flew. 



41 



Lyrics of the Southland 
A DENUNCIATION OF SATAN 

You flew straightway to Paradise, 

Man's happy dwelling place, 
And sought by wily trickery 

His manhood to efface. 
You taught the crawling, artful snake 

To tempt our Mother Eve, 
To eat of the forbidden fruit 

And Paradise to leave. 

Farewell to all thy joy and bliss, 

Thy plans came but to naught, 
And it was known that you would lose 

The cause for which you fought. 
Mortal men think of thee with dread, 

Immortals look with scorn, 
And thou hast long since rued the day 

That thou wast ever born. 

Oh, thou most lowly, wretched fiend, 

Whom all men do despise, 
Low and debased are thy vile ways 

Abhorrent to the eyes. 
To all mankind thou art a curse, 

A stain upon his name ; 
And men forever and a day 

Will curse thy low ill-fame. 



42 



Home 



HOME. 

A cool, cosy cottage; a sweet, tidy wife; 
A babe's patt'ring feet to brighten your life ; 
Some one to partake of the sorrows and care, 
Life's gall to sip with you, the nectar to share; 
True, truthful and trusty, 
Frail, weak but strong, 

As busy and blithe as the summer day's long, 
And a home is a heaven if you make it. 

An unkempt, bleak cottage; a slack, shrewish wife; 
A young, bawling brat to harrass your life; 
Some one who will shun all the sorrows and care, 
Life's gall-cup refute, but the sweet nectar share. 
False, fickle, untruthful, 
Oft weak, seldom strong, 
A hater of right, and a lover of wrong; 
And a home is a hell if you make it. 



KNOCKERS. 

This fact dispute not — 

'Tis true without doubt — 
Knock and the world will open the door, 

And smilingly let you step out. 



43 



Lyrics of the Southland 

MOTHER. 

Mightier than the rolling deep, 
As tender as the mountain's steep, 
As from the deep abyss they creep, 
Is mother's love. 

Seldom joy, more often sorrow, 
Stands and waits for her tomorrow; 
Oft a smile she cannot borrow, 
Poor mother's love. 

Drown her sorrow, cheer her with mirth, 
Pet her, love her, think of her worth; 
Gladly give up the things of earth 
For mother's love. 

THAT SUITS ME. 

Lawd, I'll watch an' pray an' wait, 
Till I reach dat golden gate. 
Bind me wid love's bindin' cord, 
Be mah Saviour, an mah Lawd — 
Dat suits me. 

I'll serve God through strife an' sin; 
When I'm thoo, Lawd, let me in. 
Dis mah aim, an' dis mah cry: 
God an' Glory, when I die! 
Dat suits me. 



44 



The Reward 



THE REWARD. 



I snatched her from earth's worldly waves, 

Engulfing, surging, seething waves ; 

I wrenched her from the spoilers' graves, 

Dishonored, wicked-weaklings' graves. 

My love I gave ; gave I my best, 

Yea, sought to press her to my breast. 

She shrank and scorned, her eyes blazed fire, 

Her breast heaved hate, her lips spat ire. 

She turned and tossed her haughty head, 

Picked up her skirts and swiftly fled. 

I peeped and peered, till through the trees 

There floated on the balmy breeze 

A word that changes seers to cranks ; 

Small, sweet, yet simple, 'twas but "Thanks." 



THE SLUGGARD. 

He ate, he slept, awoke and wept, 

And wept, and cried, and moaned and died. 

Ceased now his groans; 

Now hushed his moans; 

No more rude echo mocks his cry, 

Who spurned to live yet shrank to die. 

Cold Death in pity heard his cries. 

His epitaph: "Below he lies." 



45 



Lyrics of the Southland 



CONSCIENCE. 

Remorse, Repentance, and Regret, 

The triplets of Despair, 
Are of a guilty Conscience born 

In Thought's dark, dismal lair. 
They nurse the bitter breast of Woe, 

Beside their playmate, Grief, 
Until stern Retribution brings 

Death, quiet, and relief. 



ONWARD. 

Be not as the sluggish tortoise, 

Creeping o'er life's rugged way; 

But, as the eagle wings his flight, 

So stretch forth thy pinions 

Of fellowship and good will, 

And gently glide through thy allotted time. 



46 



Uncle Ebeneezer's Prayer 

UNCLE EBENEEZER'S PRAYER. 

"Lawd, I'se been a faithful worker, 

Seventy odd ye'rs er mo'; 
Ev'ry whar dat You have sont me 

I'd git up an' alius go. 
I knows dat dere's good in prayin' — 

Co'se, I cain' jump roun* an'.twis', 
Du'in' preachin' lak I uster; 

But I sho hopes You'll heah dis : 
Now, Lawd, I'se done kneeled befo' You 

In dis blessed place uv res' 
Fur to ax You jiss one question, 

'Ca'se I knows dat You knows bes\ 
Hit ain' 'bout no dollar money; 

Hit ain' 'bout no bac' class dues; 
I ain' gwi ax fer no rashuns, 

An' mah wife don' need no shoes. 
Lawd, hits sumthin' dat ain' easy — 

Ennybody knows hit's hard! 
Harder'n tryin' ter churn gude butter 

Fum a desh-pan full o' lard. 
Lawd, I knows You made de rabbit 

So's dat he could dawge de dawg; 
Made de suga'-cane an' surrup — 

Evendown You made de frawg! 
An' dis heah whut I'm gwi ax You 

Ain' 'bout turnin' watah, wine; 
Ain't gwi ax fer no bac'slider 

Dat's strayed fum de ninety-nine. 
Ef You happens fer to do dis 

Hit's gwi sholy cause a row — 
I don' spec dat You kin do it, 



47 



Lyrics of the Southland 

But I'll ax You ennyhow. 
Ef You'll jess do dis one thing, Lawd, 

I'll serve You through thic' an' thin : 
Bring de cullud fo'ks together! 

Den I'll die in peace, Amen." 

RUSTY RULES. 

Some fo'ks sez : "Do unto othahs 

Ez you'd have em' do ter you ;" 
An' some sez: "Fus' do de tothers 

Ef you don't, well, dey'll do you." 
'Co'se it ain' fer my decidin' 

Wid my po', weak mo'tal voice, 
Ez ter which un is de bes' un, 

So you'll have ter pic' yo' choice. 
I rec'lect w'en I wuz little, 

Ev'y day I went ter school, 
Ole man's Bill's boy, Ben, 'ud call me 

Long he'd ape an' ugly fool. 
I got tiahed o' dat foolin', 

An' axed ma whut sh'u'd I say. 
She 'lowed: "Heish, an' don' say nothin' ; 

Turn yo' bac' an' walk er-way." 
Well, de nex' day Ben 'gin fussin', 

I turned 'way, jes lak ma sed, 
An' de nex' thing dat I felt, chile, 

Wuz er bric'-bat on my he'd. 
Talkin' 'bout yo' risin' tempah, 

Chile, my blood got b'ilin' hot, 
'Fo' Ben knowed a thing I had 'im 

An' jes downed 'im on de spot. 
Den I thought o' whut ma learned me, 



48 



The Single Life 

An' a voice tole me rite low : 
"Let 'im up," an' I got off 'im 

An' lowed: "Now, git up an' go." 
I sho b'lieves dat wuz de debbil 

Dat wuz whisp'rin' dat ter me, 
'Ca'se w'en Ben got thoo a-fightin' — 

Troof will out — I cou'den see. 
Now, I alius fites my battles ; 

D'aint no use ter stay er fool, 
'Ca'se you'll fine er few excepshuns, 

Even tew de golden rule. 



THE SINGLE LIFE. 

Yew kin talk erbout yo' croonin', 
An' you spoonin' an' yo' sighin', 
But de best o' honeymoonin' 

Starts wid laffs an' en's in cryin'. 
So when some ole trusty pal 
Asts yew: "Sonny, who's yo' gal?" 
Jess say : "One gal ain't my line. 
Enny gal dat loves is mine." 

When ole Cupid comes a-creepin', 

An' starts trubbel-arrows flyin', 
Make-perten' dat yew's a-sleepin' 

An' dat love is nevah-dyin'. 
But when he lets go his bow, 
An' sez : "Yew's in love ! Now go !" 
Jess say : "Brothah, yew ain' rite. 
I loves ev'y gal in site." 



49 



Lyrics of the Southland 

When yew feel yo'se'f a-slippin', 
An' yo' b'ilin' blood goes jumpin,' 

Yew jess laff an' go on skippin' 
Even ef yo' heart is thumpin'. 

An' when folks gaze in surprise 

At de love-lite in yo' eyes, 
Say : "She's my pletonic pal. 

Fac' is, I loves ev'y gal." 

Don't go dodgin' love an' sneakin' 
Ef hit starts yo' heart to sighin', 

'Ca'se jes lak a new shoe screakin', 
Fo'ks kin' trac' yew by yo' cryin\ 

Nevah go to gittin' blue. 

Jess say : "Uh ! uh ! dis won't do. 

Heah I'm fallin' off my hoss ! 

Cain' no one gal be my boss." 

Yew might think hits fun to cuddle, 

An' to call yo' wifey, honey; 
But yew cain' forever huddle; 

Fo'ks gits tiahed o' countin' money. 
So yew might ez well know now — 
'Ca'se yew'll find out ennyhow — 
Wife's de "I" an' yew's de dot; 
Don't yew tie dat marriage knot. 



50 



Mola 



sses 



MOLASSES. 

Yes, Jemima, co'se I luvs you, 

An' I knows dat you is sweet, 
An' so fur ez looks ! why, Honey, 

D'ain't nobuddy got you beat. 
I thinks mo' uv you den possum, 
Ruther kiss you den eat coon. 
I dreams uv you in de co'n-fiel', 

In de mornin' an' at noon. 
Wen de settin' sun is sinkin', 
An' I stash away mah hoe, 
I's jess thinkin' 'bout you, darlin', 

Cleah up to do cabin do'. 
But de minnit I smells ash-cake, 

Dat's been cooked twix two big leaves, 
An' I sees dat jug o' surrup, 

Den I sets an' sighs an' grieves; 
'Ca'se it 'pears lak ma ain' nevah 

Gwine ter ax me to come in; 
But w'en I gits thoo you sho cain' 

Tell no place dem 'lasses been. 
Fer I dreens out all de drippins, 
Eats de bakin'— fat an' lean— 
Meks sho dat de jug is empty, 

Den I sops de plate rite clean. 
Jess lak I done sed, Jemima, 
I sho luvs you in yo' place, 
But dey ain' no 'oman livin' 
Zacly sweet ez 'lasses tas'e. 



51 



Lyrics of the Southland 

You ain' mad, is you, Jemima? 

Hadn't orter tol' you dis — 
Turn 'roun' heah an' heish dat cryin' ; 

Cain't you see I wants a kiss? 
Uh ! uh ! but I laks yo' kisses, 

You been eatin' sumfin' sweet; 
Uh! uh! dat tas'e jess lak 'lasses; 

Dat mus' be whut anguls eat. 
Please jess gimme one mo', Sweet-cakes, 

Dey're so rich an' fresh an' fine, 
An' tas'e so much lak blac' 'lasses 

I mought go an' change mah mine. 
Goodness Ian' ! le's git de parson, 

All dis sweetness gwine ter was'e. 
Stan' erside an look out, 'lasses, 

'Ca'se you sho done los' yo' tas'e. 



IMPOSSIBILITY. 

I've seen fo'ks smile w'en dey wuz col', 

Barefooted an' raggety, too; 
Seen wimmin brave ernuff an bol' 

Ter do whut mos' men wouldn' do. 
But I'll tell you whut I ain' seen, 

An' whut I don' b'lieve kin tak place: 
Is somebuddy downrite hongry 

Wid a pleasin' lil grin on dey face. 



52 



Your Friend 



YOUR FRIEND. 



Fo'ks mought come erroun' an' pet yew, 
An' take keer dat dey don't fret yew, 

An' mought greet yew wid er grin. 
But no matter how dey greet yew, 

Jess remembah dat de dollah is yo' frien'. 
When dey happens, chile, tew meet yew, 
Jess remembah dat de dollah is yo' frien'. 

Long ez yew do all de lendin' 
An' yo frien's don' do no spendin', 

Dey's all wid yew tew de en'. 
But when snow begins tew blowin', 
An' de rent-man sez : "Yew's owin'," 
Den remembah dat de dollah is yo' frien'. 

All de men ull say dey miss yew, 
An' de gals ull run tew kiss yew, 

An' 'low: "Chile, yew's sweet ez sin." 
But jes say, "I'm out o' money," 
An* dey'll cry out, "Bye-bye, honey." 

Den yew knows, chile, dat de dollah is yo' frien'. 

When yew's flush yo' frien's is many, 
Den er dollah's jes er penny, 

'Ca'se yew's got er plenty den. 
But when yo' ole pants needs sewin', 
An' yo patches 'gin tew showin', 

Don't fergit, chile, dat de dollah is yo' frien'. 



53 



Lyrics of the Southland 

All de promuses fo'ks made yew, 

An' dem whut sez : "Thought I paid yew," 

Will all pass jes lak de win'. 
Den er lesson yew'll be learnin', 
An' tew one frien' yew'll staht turnin', 
'Ca'se yew'll know den dat de dollah is yo' frien'. 



THE PEST. 

Sun is tryin' ter show off, 

Crick is runnin' dry; 
Win' is gittin' lazy, 

Pecker-woods cain' fly. 
Snakes don' shet dey eyes up, 

Mule won' work a-tall; 
Ox meks fur de watah, 

Jumps in load an' all. 
Swimmin' hole is crowded, 

Watah sho' feels good; 
Milk sours while ma's churnin', 

Paw won' cut no wood. 
Cotton-bolls is makin', 

Watahmillun's red; 
Chickens don' quit scratching 

Waitin' tew git fed. 
Ev'rything's quit workin', 

Ev'n down to de bees — 
Wait a minit! What's dat 

Scratchin' twix dem trees, 
Groanin' an' a-gruntin' 

Lak hit's los hit's bref ? 
I cain' trus' mah eyes, chile; 

I'm gwin see mahse'f. 

54 



Wash Day 

THE PEST. 

Hit cain' be no possum — 

'Simmon time ain' come. 
Ef dat is a ha'nt, I'm 

Gwine whar I come f rum ; 
I kin see de edges — 

Sholy dat ain' paw 
Out heah dis hot weather 

Wid dat cross-cut saw ! 
Come hyeah, Tin-cints. Sic 'im ! 

I don' sont dat dawg. 
Shucks! hit's nothin' but er 

Ole Arkansas hog. 

WASH-DAY. 

Dis is mammy's wash-day, 

Sun is shinin' fine; 
I'm gwi mek de fiah, 

Den prop up de line. 
Git de clo'es-pins ready, 

Put de wash-pot on; 
But I bet a nickel, 

Jes ez sho's I'se bo'n, 
Wen I fetch de watah, 

Slingin' hit erbout, 
Ma'll 'low: "Watch dat fiah, boy; 

Don't you put dat out." 

'Co'se Sis Sue's gwi he'p her — 

Hope de clouds don' fall; 
Ef it looks lak rainin' 

Dat'll spile it all. 
Sis sho' need'n' worry; 

Need'n' fuss ner pray; 

55 



Lyrics of the Southland 

I knows ma, an' dis is 

Zac'ly whut she'll say: 
"Clouds is lookin' th'eatnin' ; 

Gwine rain, 'thout a doubt; 
Bring dat washin' bac' heah, gal; 

Don't you put dat out." 

When ma buys her clo'es-sta'ch — 

Dat kine you calls raw — 
Ma sez did you eat dat 

Sta'ch? An' I sez: "Naw." 
'Co'se I don' jes say, naw; 

Cain' do dat at home, 
'Ca'se I'd git a whuppin' 

So I jes sez: "Nome." 
Ma sez: "Git dat hick'ry; 

D'ain't no use ter pout; 
Boy, you know you'se lyin' ter me; 

Don't you put dat out." 

When de bref leaves some fo'ks — 

Bet mah red nee' tie — 
Dey're so dev'lish lazy 

D'ain't got spunk ter die. 
When de anguls ax 'em: 

"Gwine ter Heben, sur?" 
Dey'll say: "I'se too tiahed; 

I cain' walk dat fur." 
Den de debbil grabs 'em 

An' he gins ter shout: 
"Move on off dat fiah dere; 

Don't you put dat out." 



56 



Silence 



SILENCE. 

Wen de ole fo'ks is a-talkin', 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Wen de gossips is a-walkin', 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Wen ole heads is 'scussin' car'cter 
Yew jess be de silunt acter. 

Heish yo' mouf an' hoi' yo' tung. 

Wen yew hyeahs de te'cher te'chin', 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Wen yew hyeahs de parson pre'chin, 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Ef yew nachly mus' inspec' him, 
Fus git home an' den correc' him. 

Heish yo' mouf an' hoi' yo' tung. 

Ef yo' ma sez: "Bees is jaybirds," 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Don't yew up an' 'spute yo' ma's words. 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Bees an' birds is jess de same, 
Only diff'rence is de name. 

Heish yo' mouf an' hoi' yo' tung. 



57 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Ef yew fesh, an' fesh is bitin', 

Hoi* yo' tung. 
An' yew see sumbuddy fightin', 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Jess fesh on 'till yew gits thoo ; 
Fites kin be de de'th o' yew. 

Heish yo' mouf an' hoi' yo' tung. 

Swap yo' mule fer hoss dat hops 'roun', 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
'Ca'se dat hoss mought die 'fo' sundown. 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
'Ca'se dem alius tryin' ter cheat, 
Mark my word — alius gits beat. 

Heish yo' mouf an' hoi' yo' tung. 

Ef yew ever gits ter Heben, 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Spcshly ef yew's dere 'fo' seben. 

Hoi' yo' tung. 
Cullud anguls? Yew can't tell; 
Dey mought push yew off in — well, 

Heish yo' mouf an' hoi' yo' tung. 



58 



Mandy Jane 



MANDY JANE. 

Mandy Jane, don't you love me? 
Hon', I'se true's stars above me; 
Try me, 'lasses, once ag'in; 
Way you treats me's sho' a sin, 
Mandy Jane. 

Is you mad wid me, honey? 
'Oman fo'ks sho is funny — 
Jes ka'se I stayed way one nite 
Heah you wants ter fuss an fite, 
Mandy Jane. 

Dat's de way; you won' miss me; 
'Til I'se whar you kant kiss me; 
Den you sho gwi see yo' wrong, 
An' you gwi wish I'se erlong, 
Mandy Jane. 

Git my hat ! I'm gwi leave you. 
You don' keer, hit won' grieve you. 
Gude nite ; you done it all ; 
G'ess Sue Smith wants me ter call, 
Mandy Jane. 



59 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Shucks ! Fse mad ; yes I sho is ! 
Been all rite ef she'd jes riz 
An' come wid me to de do' — 
Well, I g'ess you's th'owed yo' bow, 
Mandy Jane. 

Huh, uh. Naw; no gal quits me. 
Who dis is? Mandy, hit's me; 
Hit's me, Taters, lemme in, 
Whut's dat t'ase sweet on yo' chin, 
Mandy Jane? 



60 



The Pessimist 



THE PESSIMIST. 

I ain' what fo'ks call optemists 

And I don' 'fess ter be, 
But d'ain't no use ter kic' when things 

Don't go lak a — b — c; 
D'ain't no use ter buc' an' rare 
Jess lak some ole so'-tale bear. 

Quit complainin'. 

Ef God pervides you wid de meat, 
Well, hunt some colla'd greens ; 

An' ef you got some col' co'n-bre'd, 
Git out an' hunt some beans. 

Heish up all dem mighty moans. 

Put away dem grievin' groans. 
Quit complainin'. 

Wen Jedgment comes an' hits mos' time 
Fer fo'ks ter cash dey checks, 

Dem few dat stumbles 'cross de clouds 
Go mos' nigh break dey nec's. 

Den kic' 'bout de cloud-blocked way, 

Den dey gwi hyeah Gabr'el say : 
"Quit complainin'." 

W'en dey staht complainin' 'bout 

De benches bein' po\ 
De anguls gwi say : "Be content 

'Ca'se we ain' got no mo'. 
So set down on yo' ole flat fis' 
An' rare bac' on yo' rusty wris', 

An' quit all dat complainin'." 



61 



Lyrics of the Southland 



LULLABY. 

Bye, bye, mammy's lit, honey-chile, 

Dry dem eyes. 
Don't you hear anguls croonin' up 

In de skies? 
Shet dem big blac' eyes suga'-lump 

Don't you peep. 
Pappy's big, bouncin' boy, 
Mammy's pet, pride an' joy, 

Go to sleep. 

Sleep, sleep, while mammy's rockin' you. 

Hush-a-bye. 
Mammy's gwi call de boogah-man 

Ef you cry. 
Put dem putty, pink kickers down 

Where dey b'long. 
Drif where de brite lite beams, 
In dat dear Ian' o' dreams, 

An' o' song. 



62 



Deception 

DECEPTION. 

When fo'ks smiles an' grins an' giggles, 
Still dey shows a solemn face; 
D'ain't no use in guessin' 'bout it — 
Smiles lak dem ain' in dey place. 

Sho's you's bo'n, 

Hit's put on 

Jes ter hide dey hate an' sco'n. 
Dey mought come an' shake yo' han', 
An' 'low : "Chile, you sho' looks gran'," 
But ev'ybody you see grinnin' sho' ain' laffin'. 

Dis idvice is skeerce an' precious, 
So I say fur dem don' know : 
Fo'ks ull smile an' talk long wid you, 
An' den frown behin' dey do'. 

Fo'ks perten', 

Bow an' grin, 

But dat don' mek dem yo' frien'. 
D'ain't no te'chers ner no books 
Whut sez : "Jedge fo'ks by dey looks," 
'Ca'se ev'ybody you see grinnin' sho' ain' laffin*. 

I sho' b'lieves in dat ole sayin', 
'Dat ter see is tew believe;' 
'Ca'se I's seen fo'ks feignin' frien'ship 
Turn erroun', grin up dey sleeve. 

Den dey'd say 

All dat day: 

"I don' lak you, ennyway. 
Co'se you treated me all rite, 
But you jes don' suit my site." 
Chile, ev'ybody you see grinnin' sho' ain' laffin'. 



63 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Don't put tew much trus' in people, 
'Ca'se dey feeds you appul pies; 
Dese days ev'ybody's guilty 
'Til dey proves up othahwise. 

'Fo' you's ole, 

Weak an' col', 

Fo'ks gwine aggrivate yo' soul. 
You gwine ax frien's you thought true: 
"Look a-heah ! did God make you ?" 
'Ca'se ev'ybody you see grinnin' sho' ain' laffin'. 

SOCIETY. 

Yew fo'ks sailin' way up yonder 

In de sky, 
Fol* yo' wings an' drap bac', 'ca'se yew's 

Mos' tew high. 
Way yew flaps yo' wings uv pride 
Meks de lil birds run an' hide. 
Yew jess pass po' fo'ks dat's cryin', 
Yew's so vain yew keeps on flyin' ; 
D'ain't no use ter fret an' frown, 
Fol' dem wings an' come on down. 

D'ain't no use ter keep on gwine, 

By an' by 
Yew gwi shet dem wings an' come bac' 

Hyeah ter die. 
G'ess yew think some fo'ks tew low 
Jess beca'se dat dey is po'. 
Higher dat yew sail an' roam 
Fu'ther yew'll git 'way fum home. 
Stop stock-still an' turn erroun', 
Shet dem wings an' come on down. 

64 



Promises 



PROMISES. 

When fo'ks meks me er promus 
Dat dey'll do "so an' so," 
Hit goes on thoo mah years jes lak 
De win' blows thoo de do'; 
'Ca'se 'bout nine times out o' tin 
Dey's jes foolin', ennyway, 
An' de tinth time dey ain' nevah 
Meanin' ha'f o' whut dey say. 
So befo' dey gits nigh thoo 
I sez: "Honey, dat ain' new; 
Shet yo' mouf; heish, dat ull do; 
'Ca'se I sho ain' stud'in' yew. 

Don' dote on whut fo'ks tells yew, 

Er yew gwi sho' git lef; 

Yew'll git so po' an' hongry 

Yew'll hardly know yo'se'f. 

'Ca'se old talk is moughty cheap; 

Cain' nobuddy live on air; 

Yew won't have no meal ner side-meat, 

An' de smoke-house ull be bare. 

So when fo'ks gives yew dey view, 

'Bout dey'll be yo' frien' so true, 

Jes say: "Yew won't stic' lak glue; 

Gude-bye, I ain' stud'in' yew." 

65 



Lyrics of the Southland 



AGE. 

When yo' body's gittin' achy, 

An' yo' jints kermence ter pain; 
When yo' legs is gittin' shaky, 

An' you knows when hits gwi rain; 
When you fuss it gals an' boys, 
'Bout dey co'tin' an' dey noise; 
Make yo' will ; 'ca'se, bless yo' soul, 
Chile, you sho' is gettin' ole. 

When yo' ole voice jess will tremble 
When you tries ter laff and talk; 

An' you finds dat you ain' nimble 
An cain' rare way bac' an' walk; 

When you crow an' chirp an' buzz, 

'Bout how sweet a chile you wuz; 

When ambition's flame is col'; 

Den you sho' is gettin' ole. 

When yo' hair is gittin' skimpy, 

An' yo' blac' broadcloth gits green; 
When yo' cheeks git po' an' skimpy, 

An' you're fur fum sweet sixteen; 
When you turn in wid de sun, 
An' wakes when de day's ha'f done; 
D'ain't no use ter rare an' roll, 
You's jess nachly gittin' ole. 



66 



Suicide 



SUICIDE. 

You kin talk 'bout martyrs dyin\ 
While de fo'ks stan' 'roun' a-cryin', 

No de'th fer mine; I b'long dis side. 
Long ez I kin keep mah bre'th 
I'm gwi keep erway frum de'th. 

I ain' gwi 'mit no sooicide. 

Ev'ybody gits dey po'tion, 

When dey takes dat foolish notion, 

Dat dey gwi in de skies erbide. 
Dat ain' wuth er ole slic' dime. 
I'm gwi live out all mah time. 

I ain' gwi 'mit no sooicide. 

Ev'y minnit you'll fall deeper, 
Wid no chance ter bribe de keeper, 

Fer luv nor money ef you tried. 
So I don' keer whut you say, 
Hyeah I'll stay 'till mah las' day. 

I ain' gwi 'mit no sooicide. 

When de roll is called up yonder 
You won't git much time to ponder, 

An' d'ain't gwi be no way ter hide. 
Some fo'ks mought die in advance, 
But I ain' gwi tek no chance. 

I ain' gwi 'mit no sooicide. Is you? 



67 



Lyrics of the Southland 

THE PRATTLERS. 

I've wondered 'bout er lot o' things 

Ez puzzlin' ez c'u'd be, 
An' learned de answers tew some things 
Dat mos' fo'ks c'u'dn' see. 
But whut makes me see green an' red, 
An' gives me swimmin' in de head, 
Is how fo'ks runs de livin' down 
An' alius praise de dead. 

Chile, fo'ks don't care how bad yew been, 

Jess die an' you'll fin' out, 
Dat fo'ks ull talk yew tew de skies 

Ef yew did die in doubt. 
An' whut sho gits me all upset, 
An' makes me fume an' makes me fret, 
Is how fo'ks runs de livin down 
An' alius praise de dead. 

I've seen fo'ks huddle up lak sheep 

Tew gossip 'bout de po', 
An' w'en dey staht tew run yew down 

De fastes' way's tew slow. 
But w'en some sister choose de dead, 
Dey all heish talkin'; chile, dey's sked. 
Dey sho will bawl de livin' out, 
But, chile, dey bars de dead. 



68 



The Cotillion 



THE COTILLION. 

Listen tew dat fiddle talk; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Git up, shake yo' feet an' walk; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
All jine han's, now circle rite, 
Grab yo' pa'dner, hoi' her tite, 
S'lute yo' lady, bow perlite; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 

Tek yo' gal's han', count off tin; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Circle lef, now home ag'in; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Spread dat circle tew de do', 
Watch yo' pa'dner, not de flo', 
Tew de center, bac' once mo'; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 

Tew de rite ma'ch tew an' tew; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Luv yo' gal an' she'll luv yew ; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Ladies bow, gent dress parade, 
Let yo' keers an' sorrers fade, 
Grab bofe han's, now promenade; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 



69 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Cleah de flo' fur buc' an' wing; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Fus man out; now fus man swing; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Tew de center secon' man, 
Kic' up san', uh, goodness Ian'! 
Ev'ybody pat dey han'; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 

Dat man sho kin sling his feet; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
B'lieve he'd ruther dance den eat; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Huh, uh, I cain' stan' dis thing, 
Ev'ybody pigeon-wing, 
Git home, balance all, now swing; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 

Ev'y pusson jine dis reel; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Ev'y body lak dey feel; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
All ain' dancin' cleah de flo', 
Free fer all now heah we go, 
Ev'y body heel an' toe; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 



70 



Discouragement 

Bac' in line, ma'ch han' in han' ; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Gents keep ma'chin', ladies stan' ; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 
Gents all meet yo' ladies, sweet, 
Clap yo' han's an* stomp yo' feet, 
Now ma'ch tew dat 'possum's meat ; 

Ring erroun' mah Susy gal. 

DISCOURAGEMENT. 

Wen de fiah is a-burnin' 

In de big ole fiah-place, 
An' de brite lite frum de hick'ry 

Meks you look red in de face ; 
Wen de pic'aninnies lays 'roun' 

Noddin' on de cabin flo', 
I gits skeered o' de ole bad-man, 

So I bolts an' bars de do'. 
Den I slips into de kitchen, 

Breaks off bread in gread big chunks, 
Till ma wakes an' hollers : "Ezry, 

Come hyeah an' push up dese chunks !" 
Wen life's fiah is a-burnin' 

In de fiah-place uv strife, 
An' de keers an' toils an' trubbels 

Meks you wish you had no life; 
Wen de t'ings -you's livin' up to 

Nods befo' de blaze uv grace, 
Bolt an' bar out schemin' Satan — 

Shet de do' rite in his face. 
Shove yo' sorrows 'twix' de bed-clo'es, 

Ain' got beds? Well, mek some bunks; 
Pray ontwell faith's fiah's burnin', 

Den stoop down, push up de chunks. 

71 



Lyrics of the Southland 



CRY-BABY. 

I cain' cater tew all classes, 
An' I cain' please all de masses, 
An' I'm gwi tell yew de troof, 

I ain' gwi try. 
I ain' gwine mah whole life thoo, 
Tryin' whut Jesus didn' do, 

'Ca'se he didn' mek fo'ks b'lieve 

Fur dem He'd die. 

Ef yew tries tew please de big crowd 
One is sho gwi bellow out loud: 
'Hits all rite ez fur's hit goes — 

But I don' know.' 
Ef yew bows down tew de tothers, 
Dey'll cry out, 'Oh, mah dear brothahs, 

Call class-meetin' le's see whar 

Dis race gwi go.' 

I kin tell yew whar yew gwiin', 
Ef yew don' heish all dat cryin'; 

An' de leas' thing happens 

Gwine ter God fer feed. 
He's gwi th'ow yew in de fiah — 
Ef he don' well I'm a liah — 

Wipe yew clean fum off de yearth 

An' leave no seed. 



12 



Southern Superstition 



SOUTHERN SUPERSTITION. 

I'm thoo ez I kin be wid whut 

Fo'ks calls a goopher han'. 
Yew don' know whut I'm talkin' 'bout? 

Ef dat don' beat de ban' ! 
W'y, chile, a han's a HI red sac' 

Keeps yew fum gittin' hurt, 
Hits filled up wid er lot o' things 

Mixed up wid graveyard dirt. 
Yew wears hit tied aroun' yo' nee' 

Where hits hid clear fum view, 
An' w'en fo'ks sprinkles things it nite, 

Yew knows dey cain' hurt yew. 
An' w'en yo' vittels gits rite skeerce, 

Yew tech yo' fryin' pan, 
An' tells hit jess ter wait er-while, 

Den hunts yo' stealin' han'. 
'Ca'se here is han's fer ev'ything; 

Fer turnin' blue things blac'; 
Er han' ter run fo'ks husban's off, 

An' one ter bring 'em bac' — 
But dat ain' whut I'm 'splainin' now, 

Whut I knows is jess dis: 
D'ain't no mo' to dat mess 'bout han's 

Dan's tew er promised kiss. 



73 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Yew see hit happened dis er-way : 

I wanted sumthin' t' eat; 
So I give Doc six bits jess fer 

Er han' ter steal some meat. 
I slipped into de hen-house do', 

Pulled down de fattes' hen. 
I c'u'den wait ter git but one 

My mouf was wat'rin' den. 
So I re'ched out an' teched de wall, 

An' tiptoed 'long rite slow. 
But bless yo' sweet life w'en I looked 

Marse George wus in de do'. 
He beat me, an' he kic'ed me 

'Til my rite looked lak my lef. 
I run an' got so tiahed, dat 

I cou'den ketch my bref. 
Well I wuz mad ez I cou'd be, 

Oh, honey, I wuz rite ! 
I went rite straight ter ole Doc's house, 

An' I went dere ter fite. 
I up an' tole him what I thought; 

He took it jess ez ca'm; 
Den lowed : "Dat am' no chicken han', 

Yew fool, dat han's fer ham." 



74 



The Death-Bed 



THE DEATH-BED. 

Come erroun', HI chilluns, 
An' stan' 'roun' mammy's knee. 

Mammy's gwine ter leave yew now, 
Lord's gwine set her free. 

Lindy, yew's de oldes' ; 

Yew keep de chilluns straight; 
Min' yo' sister, Zacherias. 

Take my baby, Kate. 

All y'all come an' kiss me, 
An' den I'se gwine erway; 

Dat's all ; shet de cabin do' ; 
Run erlong ter play. 

Brothah Ezry, won't yew 
Sing sumthin' while I pray; 

Ruther hit 'ud be de hymn 
Dat sez, Steal erway. 

Then with swinging motion 

That bespoke bitter woe, 
Tuned he lips and softly sang 

In accents sweet and low : 

Steal away, steal away, etc. 



75 



Lyrics of the Southland 

For a moment silence 

'Twixt shortening gasps of pain, 
Then she sang while voices hoarse 

Joined this sweet refrain: 

I am on my journey home, etc 

Struggle, strife and toiling 

Receded with its toll ; 
But her dear friends rhythmic chants 

Hastened on her soul. 

Po' chile ! she's in Hebben ! 

Don' grieve; De Lawd knows bes'; 
Chilluns, le's us sing a hymn, 

Lindy'll do de res'. 

Deacon Day, you start hit; 

Hit's time I'se home ter cook. 
Fervently they sang until 

Walls and rafters shook: 

There's is rest for the weary, etc. 



76 



My Friend 



MY FRIEND. 

I got a good ole faithful frien', 

Dat's wid me tew de very en'; 

A frien' dat's true through thic' an' thin. 

Dat's mah dawg. 
An' ef yew evah lay yo' han' 
Tew hard erpon his hide, 
Yew bettah stan' erside, 
Fer I'm gwi sholy raise some san', 

'Ca'se dat's mah dawg. 

He nevah tries ter do no dirt, 

An' d'ain't a thing dat dawg w'u'd hurt, 

An' d'ain't a frien' dat he'd desert, 

Dat's mah dawg. 
He's bettah dan de mos' o' men, 
Ez good ez virgun gol', 
De same dawg hot er col' — 
Tew tell de troof he's jes mah frien', 

'Ca'se he's mah dawg. 

Hit meks no diffunce, soon er late, 
Wen I gits home he's at dat gate — 
Dat dawg's jes nachly up-ter-date, 

Dat's mah dawg. 
He always will be mah one choice, 
So ef he lie's yo' face, 
Jes push him in his place, 
But don' yew dare tew raise yo' voice, 

'Ca'se dat's mah dawg. 



77 



Lyrics of the Southland 

An' w'en yew feels lak raisin' cain, 
An' thinks yew gwi cloud up an' rain, 
Don' wet dat dawg — I'll tell yew plain- 

Dat's mah dawg. 
An' w'en yo' tempah's sharp ez steel, 
Well, fite jes lak yew feel, 
But keep off mah dawg's heel, 
Er yew'll was'e watah on mah wheel, 

'Ca'se dat's mah dawg. 



78 



Expectation 



EXPECTATION. 

Marse John, he done gone erway. 

You see dat. 
Evahbody's feelin' gay. 

You see dat. 
Sundown we's gwine give a pahty, 
An' I's gwine ter fetch Sue Carty; 
Oh my ! but she's strong an' hearty. 

You see dat. 

Looks jess lak a brown-skin fairy. 

You see dat. 
Putty soon, chile, we's gwine marry. 

You see dat. 
She sho ain't gwine plant no 'maters, 
Hoe no cotton ner dig 'taters ; 
She's gwine wear fine silks an' gaters. 

You see dat. 

Co'rse I laks de marse an' miss. 

You see dat. 
But I kinder laks ter kiss. 

You see dat. 
When hit comes ter down-rite showin', 
Honey, white fo'ks sho ain' knowin', 
How real lovin' sh'u'd be goin'. 

You see dat. 



79 



Lyrics of the Southland 

Whose a-gwine git on his knee? 

You see dat. 
Lawdy mussy! Goodness me! 

You see dat. 
White fo'ks whisp'rin' 'bout de moonlite, 
An' de putty stars whut shines brite — 
Let it git dark ! Shucks ! dat's all rite ! 

You see dat. 

Where's dat ovahseah at? 

You see dat. 
Mus' be 'roun' 'ca'se dere's his hat. 

You see dat. 
I'll see you, Sal ; hon, dat I shall ; 
You's mah lil 'lasses an' mah pal — 
I'd swap Marse John's crap fer dat gal. 

You see dat. 



80 



The Lamentation 



THE LAMENTATION. 

Sinthy! Sinthy! Well, Lordy me! 
I'll wonder whar dat chile kin be? 
Lak ez not somewhar at play, 
Loafin' all dis live-long day. 
Bless yo' soul, in slav'y time 
All us chilluns had ter min'. 
Now heah I wants my 'backer fetched 
An' dat gal cain' no whar be ketched. 
Hit seems lak things done changed me, 
'Ca'se things ain' lak dey use ter be. 

Well, heah yew come ; time ter git fed ; 
Ain' wuth de salt goes in yo' bre'd! 
Come heah, gal, han' me my sticM 
Yew flinched ; knowed yew desarved er lie'. 
Git dem blac' han's often dat clean bed! 
Great mine ter break yo' ole hard he'd. 
Yew're jes lak yo' ole lazy pa, 
He'd starve ef warn't fer yo' po' ma. 
Sometimes I'se sorry I'se sot free, 
'Ca'se things ain' lak dey use ter be. 



81 



Lyrics of the Southland 



Yew see dat gal? She's sixteen sho; 
An' she cain' wash ner cook ner sew ; 
Cain' even make her mammy's bed; 
De mos' she know 's one-piece co-ed. 
I don' know whut dat is. I g'ess 
Hit's some new-fangled kind o' dress. 
W'y, honey, w'en I'se ha'f her size 
I'se bakin' biscuit-bre'd an' pies. 
Miss Liza, 'co'se yew mayn't ergree, 
But things ain' lak dey use ter be. 

Honey, I'se gwine tew tell yew strate : 
Dat gal is alius stayin' up late, 
Puttin' on airs an' co'rtin' men. 
Ain' done no wurk since Lawd knows when. 
Whut you want, Sinthy? Yew call me? — 
Jess wait, Miss Liza, lemme see — 
Whut's dat — want me ter shaperoon, 
While yew an' Isaac sets an' spoon? 
Well, gal, I'll have yew know an' see 
Dat things ain' lak dey use ter be. 

Gal, who yew think gwine wait on yew? 
Mus' think I'se nothin' else ter do. 
Whut's dat? Well, I don' have ter be? 
Heah, 'oman, don' talk bac' ter me. 
I'm yo' gran'ma through thic' an' thin; 
Don't yew come handin' me yo' chin. 
I'll break yew 'cross dat pantry-shelf, 
I knowed yew 'fo' yew knowed yo'se'f. 
I'll whup yew, gal, so yew cain' see, 
Ef things ain' lak dey use ter be. 



82 



The Lamentation 

Now git up an' sass me ergin; 
Y'ain't hurt ha'f bad ez yew pert en'. 
Dry up ! Shet up ! Don't yew let me 
Heah yew whimper! Now, go an' see 
Ef yew cain' clean dat nasty face, 
An' 'member tew keep in yo' place. 
Isaac, my son, hit's ha'f pas' eight; 
Don' hurry; but don' stay tew late — 
Rite now dat gal knows much ez me, 
'Ca'se things ain' lak dey use ter be. 

Liza, things sho am not de same; 
I cain' git use ter save my name 
Tew gazin' at dem things on wheels, 
Whut fo'ks all call autymobeels. 
Liza, yew take er fool's edvice, 
An' eat yo' hoe-cake, greens an' rice. 
Co'rse all dese young fo'ks laff an' smile, 
An' sez ole Dinah's out er style; 
Ole-timey's good ernuff fer me — 
Things sho ain' lak dey use ter be. 



83 



Lyrics of the Southland 



TEMPTATION. 

Whut's her name? I ain't gwine tell yew. 

I ain't totin' news fer yew. 
All I knows dat mastah bo'ht her 

An' she wears a 'leben shoe. 
How'd I know dat dey wuz 'lebens? 

Ca'line tole me. An' I g'ess 
Dat de froc' she had on must ter 

Been a Sunday meetin' dress, 
D'ain't no use ter keep on at me, 

I done tole yew all I knows! 
'Sides, who wants a dahky lak you, 

Wid yo' hair all in co'n rows; 
Rite foot planted in de graveyard, 

Tryin' ter pull out on yo' lef; 
Po'er dan po' Job's ole turkey; 

Ugly ez ole Scratch, hisse'f ? 
Did I stop an' 'gage in talkin' ? 

Huh! uh ! I jess pranced rite by; 
Den I turned lak dis, an' giggled, 

Sed "Howdy" an' "Gude-bye." 

'Lige, yew sho is pesticatin', 

Axin' qu'stions 'bout dat gal. 
Man, ain't yew gwi nevah do rite 

An' 'main true ter yo' wife, Sal? 
I's got my HI wife ter look at, 

An' de pic'aninnys tew, 
'Thout a-runnin' 'roun' an' gazin' 



84 



Temptation 

At ernother 'oman's shoe. 
Heah yew is putty nigh sixty, 

An' yew'd drap dead fer a smile 
Fum a putty cullud 'oman 

An' jess nachly go hog-wile. 
'Pears ter me dat yew's plum ign'ant. 

A'nt Sal nachly ain't yo' kine. 
Wush I had her place er minnit 

I sho w'u'd tell yew my mine. 
Yew jess 'ten' ter ole A'nt Sally, 

An' quit flirtin' on de sly; 
'Oman strangers meet yew, giggle; 

Say: "Howdy?" an' "Gude-bye." 

Jes lak marster sed yistiddy, 

Some fo'ks break dey own fool neck'. 
Heah yew's actin' plum redic'lous 

An' yer wants ter 'mand respect. 
Some fo'ks flies rite off de handle 

When yew 'visin' 'em whut's rite, 
So I tell yew, don' git mad, 'Lige, 

'Ca'se I ain't a-gwine ter fite. 
All uv us gits tribilashuns, 

An' tem'tashuns comes our way, 
But yew got ter git wid Jesus, 

An' yew got ter sing and pray. 
Ef yew don't de debbil's got yew. 

D'ain't no earthly use ter rare, 
'Ca'se he's gwine ter hoi' on tew yew 

'Tell de good Lawd heahs yo' prayer. 
So when I meets up wid trubbel 

I don' stop ter set an' sigh; 
I jess looks at hit an' giggles; 

Sez: "Howdy," an* "Gude-bye." 

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Lyrics of the Southland 



FOOTSTEPS THAT FALTER. 

A silly maid, with her foolish ways, 
Heard the vain world's plauds and its flatt'ring praise; 
And the world set a pace that was certain to kill 
All the teachings some mother had sought to instill, 
And the weak woman faltered — as weak women will — 
For the sun of her life was rising. 

A fickle maid, with her foolish style, 
Thought the world would rave o'er her foolish smile; 
And a poor brother's heart became burdened with pain, 
And a poor father's heart-strings were torn nigh in 

twain ; 
But their pleas to the maiden were pleas all in vain: 
For the sun of her life was rising. 

A foolish maid heard her praises sung 
By a praising gent with beguiling tongue; 
And he petted and teased her, and told her a lie; 
And told her, without her he might as well die ; 
And the weak woman cuddled the closer to sigh : 
For the sun of her life was rising. 

A maiden sad, with a hung down head, 
Saw the world had lied, while the gent misled. 
And her only companions, Remorse and Regret, 
And a poor old true mother who tried to forget; 
But the old world forgot not ; remembered the debt ;. 
Hence the sun of one woman had risen and set. 



86 



The Revival 



THE REVIVAL. 

Marthy, honey, wash dem dishes, 

Don' be foolin' dat er-way; 
Don't yew know dat dis is Sundy, 

An* revival starts terday? 

Hitch dem hosses, Hezekiah — 
You gits lazy time yew eat; 

Bet by time we reach dat chuch-house 
We cain' even git no seat. 

Did yew feed dem hawgs, Mirandy? 

Do it den ; Den mek dat bed, 
So's yo' ma kin put yo' froc' on 

An' com' out dat knotty he'd. 

Marthy, honey, is y'all ready? 

Bolt an' bar de cabin do', 
'Ca'se when we gits home ter-nite, chile, 

Possums ull be out, I know. 

Come on ! Hurry, Hezekiah ; 

Let yo' movin', git some tone ! 
Come on heah, git in his waggun, 

Let dat rabbit-dawg er-lone ! 



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Lyrics of the Southland 

Git up, Sue; Move 'long dere, Sally — 

Sun is risin' ; mus' be late. 
Hop out, Hezekiah, honey, 

Open up de barn-ya'd gate — 

Wake up, chilluns; don't y'all heah dat? 

Cain't y'all heah dem chuch-bells ring? 
Heish yo' mouf an' keep rite quiet, 

An' yew'U heah dem dahkies sing — 

Gimme dat ole time deligion, etc; 

Come long, Sue, gal; Git up Sally; 
Don' poke long heah lak yew's dead — 

Hoi' dat dinnah basket, 'Randy — 
Dere's de chuch-house jess er-he'd. 

Whoa ! Well, Marthy, heah we is, hon ; 
Jump ; I'll ketch yew ; yew's so slow. 

When yo' jints gits kind o' limbered, 
Go on in de chu'ch-house do'. 

Hezekiah, tek de team out; 
Tie 'em tew de waggun gate; 

Put de oats where dey kin get 'em, 
Meetin' mought hoi' kinder late. 

Come on l'es go in now, sonny, 
Set down; Dere's er empty seat. 

Son, a good ol' fashioned surmon 
Meks dis ol' heart bump an' beat. 



88 



The Revival 

Hezekiah, where's de parson? 
Seems my site is gittin' dim — 

Dere he is; I see 'im standin'; 
Now he's givin' out de hymn — 

Deligion nevah wuz designed 
Tew mek de ple'sures less, etc — 

Dat man sho kin preach some surmon, 
Look who's shoutin'! ol' A'nt Ann. 

Let me tew dat amen-co'ner, 
So de fo'ks kin shake mah han' — 

While we sings dis hymn, I wants y'all 
Sinners settin' way bac' dere, 

Tew come tew de moanah's benches, 
An' bow down yo' he'ds in prayer. 

An' I wants all y'all bac'slidahs 
Tew come gether 'roun' heah, tew, 

Ca'se I feels de spirrit movin' 
An' I knows we'll bring yew thoo. 

While we sings in common meter, 
Ev'y Christun rise an' stan', 

An' pray fur dese soul's salvashun, 
While yew shakes each udder's han' — 

De consecrated cross I bears 
Tell de'th shell set me free, etc. 



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Lyrics of the Southland 



Bless de Lawd ! de sperrit's movin*. 
Stan' er-side an' let 'em shout, 

Fer de grace uv God is in 'em 
An' de sins is comin' out. 

Praise de Lawd ; f o'teen converted ; 
Got salvashun in dey soul; 

All class leadahs, please git busy; 
Git dese names down on de roll. 

Now, we'll tek up de collecshun — 
Give free whiles yew're feelin' rite, 

'Ca'se de Lawd laks gread big givers 
Bettah den de widow's mite. 

Jess tew mek de munny even 
An' tew save de precious time, 

Will some sistah kindly gimme 
Jess the small sum uv a dime? 

Thanky, sistah, dats rite; Thanky; 
Give tew Jesus 'thout er dou't. 
Kin'ly thank de congregashun. 

Le's us stan' an' be let out. 

Now may de grace dat saves us all, 

Be wid us tew de en', 
An' safely keep us in the fol ; 

Forevahmo, Amen. 



90 



Jealousy 



JEALOUSY 

If I should want no other hand 

To dry the tears, dear, from those dreamy eyes, 

Nor other lips to lisp, my dear, 

Into those shell-like ears their soothing sighs; 

If I should sigh when others held thy tiny hand, 

A sigh, my dear, that lovers only understand ; 

Pray, would you call that jealousy? 

If I should want no other, dear, 
To bask within the sunshine of thy smile, 
And should you gladly give that smile, 
And giving, know I suffered all the while: 
If I should want, my dear, each sigh, 

each soft caress, 
For fear, my dear, that you would love the less ; 

Pray, would you call that jealousy? 

I'd not encloak with jealousy 
The sighing of the dove: 
For mantled o'er, though it may be, 
It still, my dear, is love. 



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Lyrics of the Southland 



THE DEATH SONG 

In rev'rent silence bow the head, 
In silent presence of the dead; 

Few tongues e'er tell their story. 
Dank is their couch of clay ; 
Their bones in bleaching lay, 

In armor of their glory. 

Few, save the willow's bow and weep 
The tears of grief o'er where they sleep, 

Their endless sleep unbroken; 
Lulled by their honors' lyre, 
Naught save their fun'ral pyre 

Reared as a ghastly token. 

Their dirge of death, the heroes hymn; 
Deep sorrow's tears can ne'er be bedim 

Their eyes with idle weeping. 
Gone now, their fleeting breath; 
Hushed now, those hearts in death; 

Still, are those souls in sleeping. 



92 



The Death Song 

In sorrow bow, in silence tread; 

Their souls have flown, and in their stead, 

A mem'ry, faint, attesting. 
Gone to the great above; 
Gone to their home of love, 

The haven of their resting. 




93 



APR IS I 



